


Two Against The World

by marchingjaybird



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 17:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6017668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen and Samson find a strange sort of comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Against The World

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [flatbear](flatbear.tumblr.com) as part of my [Valentine's Day fic requests](http://thedas-mom.tumblr.com/post/139320510086/its-valentines-day-and-i-have-the-day-off-work)

Samson is on top of him, inside him, all over him so that it feels like every spare inch of skin is on fire. Big hands hold his wrists, forcing them down against a hard mattress. Thin, hot lips caress the back of his neck, peel back to bare sharp teeth that leave bruises across his shoulders. He twists against the mattress, pushing his hips back eagerly. Samson goes deeper with every thrust, growling as he pulls out, exhaling sharply as he presses in fully.

This should not have happened. Of all the things he has done in the name of the Chantry or the Inquisition, Cullen has had cause to feel shame for a fair few of them. Things he did because he was misguided, things he did because he was afraid to disobey orders. Things lately that he has done in the name of saving the world, but which clash with the man he used to be. Those, he tries so hard to press down, knowing that times have changed, knowing that _he_ has changed, but there is no escaping the guilt that grinds away inside him every waking moment. This, though. This will eat away at him for a long time.

Samson reaches down to cup his hip, pulling his back into a tighter arch, and Cullen uses his free arm to prop himself up, loosing a soft cry at the new angle. Samson is big - both atop and inside him - and seemingly tireless, his hips moving like the steady pounding of a blacksmith’s hammer, unrelentingly shaping him into something different.

It was the lyrium that brought them together like this, twisted in need, trying to find something to bridge the gap. Samson had suffered through the worst of it after the Inquisitor’s judgement, locked in a small room, sweating and screaming. Cullen had poured water down his throat so he wouldn’t dehydrate, changed the sweat-soaked bedding while Samson shivered in a corner, cleaned the floor when Samson threw up black bile onto the stones. He had hated Samson, cursed him, reviled him for what he’d done to his fellow Templars, and for serving Corypheus, and for smiling in the face of the world’s condemnation.

He had held Samson’s shaking hands still when he finally drifted into uneasy sleep, and he had given in to the caresses of those hands when they stopped shaking and reached out to possess him.

They slide up now, the one on his hip slipping up beneath him until long fingers curl around his jaw and force his head back. The other relents, relinquishing its hold on his wrist so that he can push himself up on his forearms. Samson growls in his ear. His hips are slowing, his cock pushing deeper inside Cullen with every rocking movement. Cullen moans, pleasure finally given voice, and Samson laughs low and dirty.

“You like that, my boy?” he purrs. A finger taps at Cullen’s lips and he parts them, sucking it into his mouth. Samson moves it in time with his hips, in and out, in and out, and Cullen shudders. He ought to bite, or spit the finger out, or do something, _anything_ but pull it deeper into his mouth and close his eyes so that his focus is entirely on Samson. How he moves, how he tastes, the electric pleasure as he moves so, so deep inside.

“You Chantry boys are all the same,” Samson whispers, and his breath is hot against Cullen’s ear, sending shudders down his spine. “So pious and pretty, but just watch when you get a few fingers inside you.” He laughs again, bites Cullen’s jaw. “You spread your legs so fast I thought they’d snap off.”

Cullen squirms, embarrassed and hating that his embarrassment is making him harder. Every time Samson calls him _Chantry boy_ , mocks him for being a whore, holds him so that he has no choice but to be still and take what he is given - every single time is like a knife of lust deep in his gut. He moans breathless agreement, grinds back against Samson’s hips. He’s so close he can taste it, just a few more thrusts, a quick stroke. His hand drifts down and Samson catches it, slams it against the mattress.

“No, no, my pretty boy,” he murmurs. He twists, shifting his weight away, and then he is pulling out and Cullen yelps in surprised protest. “Not like that.”

He is surprisingly strong, his broad hands slipping under Cullen, lifting and turning until he’s on his back, a scarlet flush creeping up his cheeks. Samson leans over him, hooking Cullen’s legs over his shoulders, pressing down and opening him up. He smiles, licks his lips. “There now,” he says, reaching down to guide himself in. Cullen cries out softly, eyes squeezing shut as Samson pushes in once more. “That’s my boy. You look much prettier like this.”

And it begins again, the relentless pressure and pleasure, the excitement of a new position that tightens the muscles in his stomach and nudges him ever closer to the edge. Samson watches him now, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep but avid, so eager to devour every expression, every flicker of pleasure. 

They served together in Kirkwall, Samson and Cullen, and they both survived that madhouse. Samson had tried to help, tossing little crumbs of kindness to the mages in his care, and it had gotten him drummed out of the order and left on the streets, addicted to lyrium and bitter. Cullen had been a good boy, obeying Meredith until it was almost too late and then turning on her like a faithless dog. It had earned him a place at the head of the Inquisition’s army, friendship with some of the most powerful people in Thedas. 

Cullen sees the knowledge of that in Samson’s eyes, the bitterness that he will never be able to shake. This is as much a purging of resentment as it is a long denied, long buried desire. The broken knight taking the golden boy, stripping him raw and making him feel.

Callused fingers surround Cullen’s cock and he gives a strangled cry. A few strokes of Samson’s hand and he is undone, his muscles seizing and trembling as ecstasy wracks his body. It has been a long time since he came so hard, spilling himself in what feels like endless shuddering waves. A hoarse sound bursts from his throat, not quite a scream, not quite a moan, and Samson buries his face in Cullen’s neck, biting tender skin and leaving fresh bruises that Cullen will have to take care to cover before he leaves the room.

He doesn’t feel Samson come inside him, hardly notices the slowing thrusts, the deep, ragged sigh as Samson pulls out and rolls to the side. They lay together, both staring at the ceiling, wet between the legs and paralyzed by dawning realization. It is not unlike when he was a boy, sneaking off to touch himself, imagining the neighbor girl with her shirt off, touching her breasts, spreading her legs, and on and on until he came and was immediately disgusted by what he’d been thinking. This is the same, the knowledge that he has been a slave to his urges, the shame of that subservience, the resolve to never let it happen again and the laughing certainty that he will.

Samson reaches down and fishes a rag off of the floor. He cleans himself off, hands it to Cullen who is finished with it before he realizes that it is his shirt. Frowning, he tosses it back on the floor and sits up. “It won’t hurt my feelings if you go,” Samson drawls, but Cullen has learned a little from listening to Josephine and Leliana, and he knows that often by saying something, a person means to alert others that the opposite is true. Cullen glances over at Samson, sees the lines that sorrow and pain have carved in his face, the emptiness that addiction has left in his eyes. Cullen is aware, painfully aware, of how close he has come to this very fate. They stare at each other for a moment, then Samson’s face twists in bitter amusement and he reaches up, thumbing the scar across Cullen’s lip.

“Ruined your face, pretty boy,” he murmurs, his voice dripping venom.

“Meredith hit me,” Cullen answers. “She was wearing a gauntlet.”

Samson barks laughter but there is no humor in it. “Bitch,” he says.

“She died badly,” Cullen offers.

“Aye,” Samson answers. “I saw her.” He sounds almost amused, as though they are recalling happier times, and Cullen laughs softly, struck by the absurdity of it all. Samson bares his teeth in a quick smile and lifts his arm, gesturing.

“Come on, Commander,” he orders. “It’s bloody cold in this idiotic castle and I won’t let you leave me to freeze.” They both know it’s an excuse, and Cullen does hesitate, but in the end there’s no point in resisting. All paths will lead to this anyhow, he knows that as surely as he knows his own name.

They fall asleep tangled together beneath the quilts. Samson drifts off first, Cullen forcing himself to stay awake just long enough to see peace settle on those battered features before closing his eyes and surrendering to dreams.


End file.
